by Ru Emerson
“I—yes. All right.” She cast an unhappy glance at the still form on the fur, his face mercifully covered over, strode from the Reception, oblivious to the still-staring nobility who parted to let her through.
Scythia ran a tired hand across her brow. “She is still displeased, isn't she?”
“Yes.” Brandt's arm tightened around her shoulders as she stood. “But she swore she would leave.”
“Well, then.” Scythia shook her head. “Something's wrong. But then, everything is, just now.”
“If you would leave with her?”
“No, Brandt. We agreed not to speak of that further. I do not leave you, not in this life. Nor in any that may follow.”
Brandt sighed, but let it rest. Impossible to argue with his AEldra wife when the matter was so important to her as this. And, in truth, he knew he felt exactly the same.
The child is a good child, for one human: brave like her father and as skilled, I swear by the One, as her mother, though she chooses as stubbornly as one of my kind to disbelieve. Half-blood! I, Nisana, am among the great wielders of the AEldra power, though my own blood has been cut more times than I can count. The Power is, that is all. And so she will learn.
The last boat sailed at dusk, oars splashing softly to guide it into the current. A triangular orange sail was hoisted awkwardly and the long pleasure craft, floating low in the water with its unaccustomed cargo, gathered speed and was gone. The Merman had left a long time since.
Ylia watched the River from a deserted upper chamber, a small black and orange cat against her arm. Nisana: Queen Scythia's cat. But also AEldra, and so more than simply cat.
“I will keep my promise.” Ylia spoke softly, though the rooms had been deserted for nearly a hundred years; not even servants came to this particular tower, and most of them were hours since fled down-River, anyway.
'Hah. You promised to board the Narran ship and seek safety in Yls,’ the cat's tart reply filled her mind, continued an argument started over an hour before when Nisana, alerted to the girl's presence, had come in search of her.
“I did not, most carefully,” Ylia retorted. “Father named me heir, I accepted that as I must. Because Beredan gainsaid it by his death, five years ago.” She swallowed; her brother's death had been so stupid! Useless, foolish and stupid! And it still hurt, even after so long a time. “I promised to use full safeguards. But I made no promise to remain on that ship!” She stared out the window. “You did not go, cat,” she added pointedly.
'Because your mother did not,’ Nisana replied. ‘I do not leave Scythia ever, unless I must. I have not, since her mother commended her to me at her birth. I intend at the last to lead her from the City by the tunnel.’ Her head moved against pliant fingers. ‘Two would be better at that. If your father dies,’ she added, with a cat's blunt lack of tact, ‘she will not wish to leave.’ Ylia closed her eyes, swallowed dread. ‘I must go to learn what I can of the defenses,’ Nisana added, ‘and to see what aid I can give. Stay here.’ She dropped lightly to the floor. ‘Unlikely, with all that passes at present, Scythia will be aware of your presence.’
“No. I remained to aid also. And I will not hide behind what I have done; I am not ashamed of it.”
'So be it.’ Despite the fact that she was irritated with the girl, Nisana was moved to a grudging admiration: unlike most humans, to take responsibility for their often foolish, emotionally bound actions. ‘But stay a while. Lest they still find a way to send you hence. Wait, I will return.’
“All right, cat.” Ylia turned back to stare into the night. My less than worthless Power. Nisana could have saved Gors, she and Mother together. And I—she suppressed the thought. Faintly, she sensed the cat's presence fading down-hall. One such as Scythia would have been able to follow her all the way to the Reception.
Nisana returned some time later and accompanied her to the kitchen for a cold evening meal, and for biscuit, dried meat and fruit to fill a travel bag. As the girl ate, Nisana told her what she had learned. ‘Plans are not yet complete and depend largely upon the barbarians. Scythia and I will create a seeming upon the walls, so that it appears we have more armed there than exist. Other than that—’
“Then I can be of some aid, perhaps. A little.” Ylia swung the bag to her shoulder. “The Council Room, cat.”
'No! If you—’
“Yes. I remained to aid. I cannot aid, unless they know I am here.”
Nisana glowered at her, finally turned away and padded back toward the main halls.
A silence greeted the heir to the throne's entrance. She stood in the doorway, braced for the recriminations, the anger which must follow. Silence. Her mother laughed then.
“I told you, husband, I sensed something.”
Brandt shook his head, bent to hide a smile under his moustaches. “Mmmm. Had there been less to worry this afternoon, I might have caught you out in your choice of words, girl! You boarded, eh? And then left at once, no doubt?”
Ylia flushed, shrugged. “Well—not quite at once.” She grinned as she caught the smile that passed between her father and mother. “I had to wait a little, until the Narrans were away from the plank.”
Scythia laughed again, drew her into the room and to the empty chair at her side. She and Brandt both ignored the unhappy looks from the others around the table; Ylia was too nervous to see them. “All right, child. You've made your point and cut your escape. And I can use you tomorrow.”
“Nisana told me. You plan a seeming of bowmen.”
“We'll keep most of our bowmen within the City, upon the outer parapets,” Brandt said. “Most of the City's strength, swordsmen, landers, horsemen, go with me, to set upon the Tehlatt in full force. Since they know that we by habit send only a portion of our armed out at a time, they may think us a greater army, and turn away.”
“But, of bowmen—” Ylia considered briefly. “We haven't enough to man a third of the outer wall, even with the Southern and Eastern holders to aid.” She was more aware of the remainder of the men in the Council Chamber, now; flushed as she caught suddenly approving looks. The girl wasn't merely a spoiled creature; she was Brandt's child and had learned from him.
“No,” said Scythia. “Most will be seeming. Between us, you and I can create and hold such a vision, daughter, and Nisana will reinforce the vision with her own strengths as need requires.” Can we, indeed, Ylia thought sourly, thrust the thought hastily aside as her mother caught it and frowned at her.
“If they can fight—” one of the captains began hesitantly, but Scythia shook her head. “No. That we cannot do: the Powers granted the AEldra by the Guardians are for healing and peace, for personal protection only. If phantoms could fight, one with evil intent might use such forces to gain hold over a folk. A host of seeming bowmen there can be—one to take arms and defend Koderra, that there cannot.”
“It may, as the King says, be sufficient.” The captain didn't look wholly convinced, though.
“Levren leads the bowmen, and with him Marhan will stand, since he no longer sits horse with comfort,” Brandt finished. “They will bring what men they can through the northern tunnel to the River if it becomes clear they can do nothing on the walls save die.”
Ylia laughed. Death, at the moment, was a distant and unreal thing. “Marhan will not like being surrounded with phantom soldiery.”
Her father laughed with her. “No, poor Marhan, he does not.”
“Nor do any sensible folk.” Familiar, hated voice. Ylia rose to her feet, all laughter gone, shook off her mother's restraining hand. She turned away, too, the warning thought that sought to touch her: ‘Do not anger him, we need his strengths, daughter!’
“Vess.” Hated, horrible cousin! 'Need Vess, Mother? Why not bring also some of the green marsh-snakes and have done?’
Brandt's sister Nala's mystery son, the King's bastard nephew—there! Half a room away from her, he lounged at the foot of the table. Still too near. “Perhaps you have a better suggestion, sweet cousin. I'm certain we
cannot wait to hear it.”
He flushed at that. Almost immediately, though, he was once again the smooth, languid darling of Teshmor's ladies, but the light brown eyes that met hers were pale furies.
For years, since she'd been old enough to realize how Vess treated women, particularly those of rank greater than his, Ylia had loathed him. Seducer. That was the polite word for it. For his part, Vess disliked her openly and intensely. That a female be handed Nedao's throne! And a female half-witch, to boot! He had, after Brandt named her heir, attempted her death on several occasions, hoping thereafter to press Brandt into granting him a higher position in the succession. One could always, he reasoned, try.
Deep down, he found her attractive, sword, plaits and all. The certainty that she'd have rebuffed any of his skilled overtures had only intensified his already strong hatred.
“I was not aware you had skill in battle strategy, sweet cousin.” It was Ylia's turn to flush. Her mother's hand became even more insistent.
“The equal of yours,” she replied sharply, “and if that is little, at least it is not buried under many years worth of lechery and wine.”
Vess leapt to his feet. “I've had enough of you, girl.”
“Not as much as I've had of you, womanizer!”
“Perhaps you'd care to settle matters—right now!”
“Try me!” Her sword was halfway from its sheath; Vess’ dagger gleamed in the ruddy light. Those around the table eyed the two nervously.
“Vess! Ylia!” Brandt shouted. Instant silence. “There is enemy enough to fight, without you killing each other. Lord Vess, you have learned all we have to say here. You are welcome to remain in Koderra, though I fear I cannot offer you safety.”
“If I had wished safety, Sire, I would have sailed for Yls.” Vess inclined his head respectfully. The dagger vanished back into its hidden arm sheath.
“There are still one or two small boats remaining in the harbors, nothing truly safe in open sea, but a chance against a certainty. There are the mountain passes. Or, if neither of those options appeal to you, sister's son, return to Teshmor.” Another, colder silence. Ylia ventured a thought in her mother's direction as she sheathed her sword and dropped back into her chair. ‘Father's furious with him! What went on before I came?’
'Vess suggested a venture to attract the attention of the Sea-Raiders to aid us against the Tehlatt—hold your seat, girl! Your father has forbidden you to fight him, and I will not have him further upset!’
She subsided, unwillingly, but her hands itched. To smash that pale, smug, self-satisfied face—just once! Sea-Raiders! They'd swallow Koderra whole, given the chance! Nedao's ancient enemy at Nedao's side? How many kinds of fool was he? Or was it yet another of his endless plans for gaining Brandt's throne?
Vess bowed even lower. “My King.” His voice was low, expressionless. “Teshmor is my sworn City, true. But Gors’ tale, as the Lady told it,” his tone of voice could not, really, have carried any suggestion that the Queen had lied, “leads me to believe a return journey to Corlin's walls would be my death. I need time to decide. If I do not go to Teshmor, if I could be permitted to join the bowmen?”
“Marhan will like that,” Ylia muttered; Vess shot her a telling glance but risked no further comment.
“Your choice, sister's son,” Brandt replied. Vess cast the King's heir one last, black look and strode from the chamber.
There was little else to discuss. The Southern Lords left moments later; Ylia, at her father's insistence, went back to her chambers to find what sleep she could against the next day's need.
But few slept that night, and many stood as she did, peering northward through the overcast, where the reflections of the burnings could be seen as a ruddy glow against thick clouds, and later still as small flame points scattered across the Plain. By dawn, they were less than a league from the City.
I have lived long years, even as humans count them. But in all of them, there was never a worse day than that one, and it is still hard for me to tell of it. I had lost before—no one lives for 70 or more years and does not. Mother, brother—many others. I have never before or since lost as I did that day. It is seldom I envy humans anything that is theirs. When I think of my Scythia, I envy them tears.
2
Sunrise. Ylia stood at the outer gates as equerry to the King. Queen Scythia was already upon the inner parapet, staring across grey crenulated stone, the AEldra cloaking of Power playing rainbows across her white robes and pale hair.
Brandt gripped his daughter's shoulders, his eyes warm and proud, but fear rode high in his thought, so strong even she could sense its direction. She spoke impulsively: “If—if there is need, I will lead mother to safety. I know the tunnel, the lands about the River for many leagues. I will keep her safe, Father, I swear it.”
“I know you will.” And some of the fear went from his face as they clasped hands. “Take care, daughter and heir.”
“And you, my father.” He pulled her close; she was hard put not to cling to him and weep, but then he was gone, mounted and riding from the gates with the war banner of Nedao at his right hand, his housemen about him and several hundred foot and mounted armsmen following.
For the space of several pained breaths, she stood where he left her. Only when she regained control of tears did she dare climb to join her mother. She was embarrassed, half-sick, and her purpose in remaining seemed, suddenly, childish. But Scythia's smile was warm as she turned, and she held out her hands.
“Nisana will aid us from within the Tower. Join, daughter.” Ylia smiled back, at least partly reassured, reached with her weak inner strengths, her strong sword hand.
Her eye was caught by movement on the near hills, and she stared in horror as a force of Tehlatta horsemen rode toward the gates, outnumbering the Nedao army by at least five to one. There would be no victory here, there could not be. Only the purchase of time for those who had fled, and hope of a swift death for those who remained. Her fingers dug into the stone sill as the first of the barbarian horsemen spilled into the City foreguard, and battle was joined.
Her mother's mind-touch dragged her sharply back to the moment. ‘Join!’ A rain of arrows flew from the walls, driving back those who had pressed toward the gates. A hundred or more bowmen stood there, some on the inner walls, some on the outer. Even with effort, she could not tell which were real, which illusion, though she knew full well how few trained bowmen Koderra had.
The sun rose ever higher, and still the City forces, embattled as they were, held, though little of the fighting could be seen from the walls for the dust churned up by men and horses. But now and again the wind would clear a space, or another would open as the Tehlatt force moved on, leaving dead and dying behind.
Midday: hot for early spring and dry. The seeming held. The King's forces held, though there were fewer than had ridden forth.
Ylia cried out and tore from her mother's grasp, as a sudden wind from the Torth blew the battlefield clear, and with nightmare clarity she saw the ground before the gates. The war banner flopped wildly, sagged to the ground, its pole cut in half, the bearer limp across his terrified horse. Brandt shouted once, stood in his stirrups with his sword raised high; he went down immediately under the attack of a dozen Tehlatta axemen.
She could not move, could not remember how to breath. Could only stare, dry-eyed, as the wind faltered and dust obscured the battlefield once again. Could not answer the mental demand that was Nisana: ‘Scythia? Ylia! What chances without? Scythia?!?’ But the Queen was gone.
Gone? Great Mothers, no! Ylia gazed frantically about, leaned precariously across harsh stone, her breath coming in anguished little gasps. Light flared across her vision—oh, Mothers, gods and Mothers, no—
Scythia stood directly above the outer gates, the Power flaring blindingly with the rage and pain of her loss. The bowmen, only seven in number as the seeming faded and was forever gone, drew back in sudden fear, shielding their eyes. A hollow boom shook the City:
they were bringing rams to attack the gates. The few who defended before the walls were ringed on all sides, though someone had rescued the King's torn and broken standard and set it in their midst.
A voice rose high and terrible above the sound of battle and silence fell as defender and foe alike turned toward the gates. For Scythia had cried a blood-curse in the AEldra tongue, and the sun was briefly darkened as the Baelfyr blazed from her hands to strike down those below. She cried out once more then, and a horror of blue-white flame bloomed around her as she toppled slowly from the walls. A third of those who sought to breach the gates died when she fell, the rest fled.
'Ylia? Ylia! There is nothing you can do, come now!’ Nisana's sharp command dragged the stunned girl from the wall. ‘Your oath, remember it!’ It was the right choice: dagger-oath to her father and her people held her now; horror-sick and weeping, she tore herself away and pelted back into the Tower.
'The tunnel, girl! No, not as you are, you'll die the first night! Your pack, my bag—your cloak! Must I think for you?’ Silence, save for Ylia's choked weeping. The cat rubbed against her leg. ‘Weep later; save yourself and me first!’
'I—’ with a terrible effort, Ylia caught at her breath, caught at the wall, hard. Pain—blood flowed from scraped fingertips, but it gave her back a little control. She scrubbed a sleeve across her eyes. ‘All right, I'm all right. The food pack—my rooms. Go.’ Her face was white, eyes huge and dark, and her teeth had left blood on her lower lip, but she was, momentarily at least, in command of herself again. Nisana cast her a worried glance, padded off downhall.
Food. The cat's travel pouch in which she rode on long journeys—don't think of who always carried it before, it's yours now!—a heavy cloak, the warmest she owned. One last look at the airy, familiar rooms then, before she turned to leave. A faint, furtive sound brought her sharply back around, dagger at the ready. ‘Where—and what?’ No answer; Nisana was already scouting down the hall.